


Thank You

by Marquise



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Bargaining, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-03
Updated: 2014-12-03
Packaged: 2018-02-28 00:02:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2711561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marquise/pseuds/Marquise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's given her everything. Now it's time for thanks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thank You

_“Isn’t it exquisite?”_  

She held those words in her mind, silently repeating them again and again until his voice had melted into her own, internal tone. Oh, the memory was clear enough—Petyr before her, ringed hand running down some well-traveled parchment like it was made of gold, eyes shining as he pushed it towards her. The ink had somewhat faded from the snow, but the words burned all the same. They spoke of death, of restitution, of rebirth.

Winterfell and the North.

The memory of the tears on her face was clear enough as well, as was the way he clutched her to himself, same ringed fingers tangled in her hair, his heart beating with anticipation.

In the intervening days they had seen little of each other, their time taken over by preparations. The return North, the assumed journey South—all of this would take some time for logistics. The more intricate questions of how they would approach this boon, of the proper course of social action, would be best hashed out together, behind closed doors, but Petyr was insistent they not seem too eager. It would be uncouth, it would be foolish beyond belief.

And so she did not come to him until a week had passed.

It was the first time Sansa had been alone in the presence of her benefactor since the passing of the letter. And while they had been alone many times before, in various states of secrecy, this one felt different. There was a weigh about her as she entered the room, pressing against her, pushing her feet forward.

Petyr was settled as his desk; the scratch of his quill stopped long before his eyes rose to meet her. His lips were pulled up, the skin tight, and this time it matched his eyes.

“Well?” He raised a brow and it took Sansa only a moment to guess the meaning of the question—that he was continuing from where they left off without a pause, the thread restored without a word.

The question had rattled about in her mind for so long that it was almost nothing to slip back into that mode. And yet despite this, despite the hours of practice she had, the words still did not sound easy in her mouth. “Exquisite. Yes.” 

He sighed then, the smile still on his face, but the skin had tightened even further, until it was almost a grimace. Smoothly he stood from his desk, his feet nearly silent on the rushes as he made his way towards her.

Sansa didn’t blink. She held his eyes and evened her breath, waited for the next words. He was not necessarily a predictable man but she had run through his potential answers so often in her mind during the past week that they had obtained that peculiar shared voice.

“Well then. I have given you an exquisite gift. Are you grateful, sweeting?”

His voice was so low it was barely understandable over the crack of the fire, but she heard every word. Truth by told he did not even need to speak.

Her throat was tight, but it would be unfair to say it was solely due to disgust or fear or uncertainty. She had expected this, she knew him well enough to know that nothing was ever given freely, not even when he also gained by their efforts. She had expected this—she had felt the weight of his eyes for so long, had lingered under his lips and hands for so many years. 

And so it was expected. And mixed in with that expectation, with the slight hollow ache that went alongside it, was something akin to anticipation. Her cheeks felt warm, her fingers curled into the silk of her dress. 

Sansa stared him down. There was a charge the air of something finally coming to pass. Petyr’s lips still held their smirk, but sometime during her stare his eyes had lost it—they seemed softer than they had before, not quite vulnerable but almost  _pleading_.

Her heart beat faster with that realization. Petyr spoke his words, granted her impressive wins wrapped up in parchment and ink, demanded things of her in return and yet here he was, and his eyes were almost begging.

She let out a breath. The room was bathed in the warm light of the fire, the windows closed to the dark winter night. Their words were low, the household sleeping around them. They had been careful, as always, to not rouse attention.

 _All of this was planned_. There was a chill accompanying that realization, though not enough to douse the more illicit thrills that filled her with shame, greed, the sense of control.

Sansa parted her lips and that was it. He closed in on her, all of the excitement that he had held back over the years manifesting itself in biting teeth, in hard hands at her waist, in digging fingers.  _Careful, always careful_. He would not leave a visible mark on her but she knew, without a doubt, that her skin would be dotted with him for the coming weeks. That she would not be able to seat herself, to go about her business, without some sharp reminder of what had been claimed, of the price she had paid. 

 _For such an exquisite gift, though_ , said the shared voice in her head.

It was remarkably easy to open herself to him, to allow him to slip his hands up her skirts to tease her, his fingers grazing the tops of stockings. She kissed him back with a mix of passion and resignation, lips slightly curled with the distaste of what she did, of how easy it was to give, of how enjoyable all this was. And when his fingers found their mark they slid in with ease, his laugh nothing more than a breath against her neck. 

There would be no bed for this consummation. In truth, it would not fit them (whatever  _them_  meant). Nothing would be more perfect than the stately surroundings of this solar, its massive desk on which so many plots were hatched and lives snuffed and regained.

There was a sharp pain when he shoved her against the desk, the wood digging into flesh even through silks. It was as if he wished to consume her, his hands tight on her body, sliding and pulling and tearing, relishing her thanks. It was unlike any expression of love she had ever experienced or, in her foolish days dreamed of, and it was fitting. Nothing about them, about this, should be soft, should be the stuff of songs.

He entered her sharply and she muffled her cries by biting down into his shoulder, hoping to leave a mark, surprised by that hope. The pain was sudden but melted quickly, and soon enough her hips were following a pattern all their own, something lewd and unexpected, something utterly fitting whatever this was.

She clutched him to herself, closed her eyes. The world around her was tight and hot and droning. It seemed some time before she was able to make out words, with the sounds of their bodies, scraping wood, and the fire muffling all. But when she heard she heard clearly, the words already taking on that twined sound in her mind.

_“Such a grateful girl...”_

 

 


End file.
